


Tales of the West

by MarirnersRevenge



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Trigger Warning for Chapter 9, Tumblr Prompt, Yeehawgust 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:34:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 11,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25842904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarirnersRevenge/pseuds/MarirnersRevenge
Summary: Tales of the West is an anthology of the strange and bittersweet stories of the people who live in this untameable frontier. From Ghost Riders to Cowboy Couture, what strange tale awaits you within these pages?
Relationships: Abigail Roberts Marston/John Marston, Jake Adler/Sadie Adler, Tilly Jackson/Arthur Morgan
Comments: 2
Kudos: 29





	1. Deadman's Hand

**Author's Note:**

> Yeehawgust 2020 is upon us and I decided that I would collect all the fics I have done with the prompts into a one shot collection. Unlike my other collection this will have various character stories. I hope that you enjoy them as much as I loved writing them.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: Deadman's Hand

Sweat rolled down his back, icy beads sending a shiver through his form. It contradicted the temperature of the afternoon, the stifling heat that hung in the air pressing against him. His fingers grasped the cards in his hand, paper wet from the sweat of his palms, as he chanced a glance at the other occupants. Three men sat at the card table, their clothes dusty from the barren dirt filled street outside, edges of their jackets and shirts frayed. The only part of their face he could see was the curve of their jaw. Sunburns and scars littered them like the bumps and nicks on old worn leather, the wide brim of their hats shadowing their eyes. He gets the distinct feeling that they are looking at him.

Why did he have to open his big mouth?

He knows that every time he does he always ends up on the wrong side of the gun.

The slight scruff of boots against the wooden floor drew his attention to the fourth man in the room. He walked the walls, fine leather shoes glinting in the candle light. The man was dressed like he should be walking in the streets of a city, not the streets of this backwater mining town. The man's eyes flashed under the shadow of his hat, seeming to glow in the half light. They draw him in, reminding him of dark wells, holes that seemed to go on forever but never far enough. He quickly adverts his gaze, sweat pooling at the base of his spine as he tosses the last of his chips into the pile.

Each man answers, some tapping the table, others matching his bet.

He glances again at the cards in his hand, paper bent and damp. He hopes what he has trumps the other hands. He hopes that he can talk his way out if it doesn't.

All the while the suited man watches as he crosses back and forth against the wall like a tiger in a cage.

One by one the men lay their cards against the table. Symbols and numbers fanning out against the dark stained wood. They wait for him to reveal his hand, heads raised towards him, eyes flashing in time with the fire of the candles.

The contents of his stomach curdled, the alcohol that got him into this mess long gone. He lays the cards slowly against the wood.

Two aces.

Two eights.

One Jack of diamonds.

The men sit in silence, hands stilled on the top of the table until one by one they turn their heads to the man against the wall. The man approached the table, long legs crossing the distance easily. But to him it felt like an eternity. The man surveys the cards, eyes now hidden as he looks at each hand. He chuckles before he speaks in a deep voice, accent mixed and unknown.

"A Dead Man's hand… How fitting."

The other men move reaching for their guns but a glance from the man stills their hands.

"Well played, Sean Macguire. Well played indeed."

In a flash of smoke, each man disappeared from the table leaving only Sean and the man behind.

For once, Sean was silent watching the man as he trailed his finger against the wood. His steps are measured and heavy as he walks around the table. One by one the candles die with each step, slowly bathing the room in darkness.

"A fitting hand for a man who cheats death-"

Step

"-but it seems your time is almost up."

Step

The man stops in front of Sean, his eyes glowing in the darkness and Sean falls into their gaze trapped.

"You best do well to keep your wits about you, Mr. Macguire. Don't want to lose your head now, do we?"

Sean swallows, his throat dry, skin clammy and cold.

"What are you…?"

The man tips his hat, the light of his eyes glowing brighter as the candles light flickers, spluttering against the thick darkness that chokes him, smothering him.

"Surely you should know…," he says, the darkness swallowing him. He leans in closer, face next to Sean's as voices whisper, call from the black.

"But just this once I'll tell you. You won't remember in the morning."

The voices scream.

Sean shoots up, dread pooling in his stomach as he struggles to remember the nightmare that turned to vapor in the morning's grey light.

"Get up, Macguire! We got ourselves a ferry to catch!"

"Yeah, yeah," Sean grumbles, tossing the threadbare blanket back from his sleeping bag. He walks away, stretching, towards the fire. But unnoticed, tucked away in the folds of his bag, was the Ace of spades. Its edges were stained with sweat, paper bent from being held in a tight grasp. The design on the back shows a portrait of a man wearing a top hat, mustache swirled up at the corners, eyes glowing in the early morning sun.


	2. Legend of the West

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Campfire Tales

Have you ever heard of the Legend of the West?

Some say he was a man, gruff and quiet. His voice could be as soft as the breeze through the cattails or as loud as a train barreling past.

He never missed a mark and could shoot the birds out of the sky with one eye closed. I saw it once! He shot six birds out of the sky in one go! Won himself $10 off the man who challenged him.

He could tame any horse too!

No, I swear it’s true!

I saw him walk up to a Nakota once, cooing like a woman to her child and when the horse was calm he hopped on its back! It bucked and rolled, trying to shake him off but he held tight. Didn’t take long for the horse to tire out and it was as soft as a cat after a dish of milk.

A Legend of the West he was.

But to me?

He was my brother and he saved my life more times than I’ll ever be able to thank him for.

...

Alright that’s enough stories for today. Your ma says it’s past your bedtime. I’ll tell you about the time he went out with your Grandpa Hosea and hunted a bear tomorrow.

...

[ _a whisper into the night_ ]

Thank you, Arthur...


	3. Moonshine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Moonshine
> 
> This story has been continued in my one shot collection, "The Sun and the Moon" which is a collection of Arthur/Tilly stories.

“YOU’RE... You’re beautiful!”

Tilly looks up from her seat at the table watching as Arthur sways in place, a dopey smile on his face, a half empty bottle moonshine clutched in his hand. She sighs.

“That’s the moonshine talking...”

She pushes back from the table and gently takes the bottle from his hand. Arthur lets it go with no resistance, eyes bright and hazy from the alcohol. He watches her set it down on the table. He shakes his head, grunting when the world swirls in front of him.

“N-no,” he stutters, the slight lisp of his words more prominent now that his tongue is relaxed, “S’not the alcohol.” He reaches a hand out for her hand that still rests on the table. He takes it in his, his thumb caressing the back.

“You really are beautiful,” he murmurs, the reins on his tightly held emotions slack, and for a moment she believes him. She wishes of all the times he could say this, it wasn’t when he was drunk. When he wouldn’t remember this encounter. Her heart stutters in her chest and she smiles sadly, slowly retracting her hand from his.

“Come on, Arthur,” she whispers, gently taking his elbow to lead him up the sloping stairs of Shady Belle. He follows her, quietly humming along with the song. His arm brushes her side and she closes her eyes against the pit in her stomach that yawns and churns.

She leads him up the creaking stairs, hand trailing the banister for balance. His large form presses against her on the narrow stairs. The scent of leather and the sweet bitter scent of his horse encompassing her. And she feels her heart crack even more. They reach the top of the stairs turning on the landing in the direction of his room and he stops her with his hand, still swaying in place.

“Are you,” he wets his lips with his tongue and she follows its progress, “are you _my_ lady?”

Her eyes snap to his. His face is open, eyes tinged with a sad hopefulness and she wonders how many times he’s asked this. How many times he’s been denied. His expression falls slightly more and more with each passing moment of silence. She wants to say yes. To say that she wants nothing more than to be his. To wrap her arms around him and hear his voice caress her name. To tell him of the dreams she has at night of them together and whole. In a cabin, by the beach. It doesn’t matter where, just as long as they were together.

Slowly she shakes her head and hates the sadness that moves in. Fill all the spaces that had been carved out by years of hope and disappointment. Of past failures and regrets that she knows haunts him. She watches him slowly pick up his broken scattered pieces, sealing them back into place in front of his heart. He straightens in front of her and nods, eyes skittering to the side.

“I’m sorry,” he burrs, voice soft and rough, “I don’t want to encroach-“

“I’m not,” she stops him, her voice a hushed whisper.

 _This is a mistake,_ her mind calls.

“I don’t- I’m not-,” she closes her eyes and breathes in deep, “I’m not anyone’s lady...”

He watches her face, eyes still clouded from the alcohol and all she can think is oh god. That she just committed the worst mistake of her life and now she will never be able to show her face in front of him again. Even if he doesn’t remember this, even if he does, she would never be able to look him in the face again. She looks down at her shoes, the mud of the swamp caked and dry. His arm falls heavy around her shoulders and she looks up as he pulls her to his chest.

“Oh, I’m glad.” His voice vibrates through his chest and into her and she longs to stay just like this for all eternity.

_But he won’t remember_

“In the mornin’,” he continues, “I’m going to take you out and show you all the spots I found. All the ones that made me think of you.” His deep voice is filled with such relief, with so much happiness, her eyes fill with tears.

_He won’t remember_

She brings her arms up and hugs his waist, face buried into his chest, as crystalline tears fall from her eyes. They stay like that, swaying back and forth to the muffled guitar outside. She pulls back slowly, discreetly wiping her nose on her hand, a bittersweet smile plastered on her face.

“That sounds lovely, Arthur.”

His lips curl up into a crooked boyish smile and she longs to see it more often.

“Let’s get you to bed.”

He nods again, the crooked smile still on his face as he follows her into his room. He groans sitting on his cot, shoes thunking to the floor. She removes his hat from his head and lays it on the bedside table, eyes avoiding the gaze of Mary ‘s photo. A not so silent specter that hangs over him.

She turns to go, his voice stopping her just as she reaches the doorway. She half turns, finding him on his side looking at her. His lids blink slowly, eye lashes brushing against the tops of his cheeks.

“Am I a good man?”

Her response is automatic, voice fierce in her declaration.

“The best man.”

His blinking stills and he takes a deep breath. Body sinking into the mattress as sleep overtakes him.

“Good night, Arthur...”

She leaves, quietly shutting the door behind her.


	4. Side-saddle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Side-saddle

Sadie always knew she was different. She just didn’t know how to tell her mother.

While other girls her age grew up lovingly caring for dolls and dresses. She staged elaborate stories with hers. They fought and had sticks for guns. Fighting outlaws and hunting bears. She would escape from her mother’s surveillance to the yard behind their home, doll clutched in her tiny hand. She’d come back when the sun was arching across the sky in a golden streak, mud on her dress and leaves in her meticulously curled hair.

More often than not she went to bed hungry but after a few days of placating her mother, she would do it again.

Her father taught her to ride horses. A begrudging compromise from her mother.

“But,” she said, fingers smoothing out her skirt as she sat primly on the edge of her chair, “she needs to learn how to ride like a proper lady.”

She despises side-saddle.

“It’s dumb,” she says from her perch on the Shires’ saddle, “I ain’t that type of lady.”

Her father would chuckle, quietly correcting her posture as he leads the horse.

“ _I’m_ _not_ that type of lady.”

She rolled her eyes, slouching, as the horse rocked her back and forth. Her father came to a stop under the shade of the tree, patting the neck of the horse.

“What if I taught you how to really ride?”

Like many six year olds she eyed her father with thinly veiled anticipation and suspicion.

“What about mama?”

Her father winked at her, putting his finger to his lips.

“You let me worry about that.”

She learned to ride both side-saddle and the true way. Her mother, while never actively engaging with her studies and held a detached interest in her horse riding lessons, seemed happy enough. Sadie quietly promised herself that if she ever did marry and had kids she would never teach her daughter how to be a “proper lady.” She’d let her cuss and wear pants and do all kinds of unladylike things.

When she met Jake, he looked at her like the sun rose and fell with her breath. She looked at him like he was crazy. He never pushed her to be like the lady her mother had taught her to be. He was a good man, kind and gentle, even less of society’s idea of a gentleman. She couldn’t help but think they matched.

She wasn’t much of a lady.

He wasn’t much of a gentleman.

She liked to shoot guns.

He preferred books.

She was rough and blunt.

He was gentle and calm.

She loved him for all the ways he let her be herself. He never asked more or less of her. When he asked her to marry him in the field behind her home, she kissed him until the need for air forced them apart.

She rode through the field on the back of his horse, head leaning against his back, eyes closed, as she listened to his soft voice tell her all the plans he had. All the dreams.

She never liked riding side-saddle.

But for him?

Maybe just this once.


	5. Goldrush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Goldrush

Dutch had been warned time and time again by his mother to fear gold sickness.

Like many boys his age he never listened.

“Gold taints _everything_ ,” she had whispered to him. The parting words of a dying woman. He patted her hand and signaled for the priest.

For many years he spent his time seeking his fortune. From robberies to schemes to plans executed meticulously. He always sought the next bigger and brighter things. Sometimes in the night his mother’s parting words press his mind. Even from the beyond he can feel her skeletal hand grasping his, a wild look in her eyes.

_Gold taints everything_

It wasn’t until later.

Later after the fire. After the crumbling of the only people he called family. Of the loss of his son. Of his partner. Did he realize that his mother had been right.

Gold taints everything and everyone it touches.


	6. And miles to go before I sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Cattlepunk

All Lenny wanted was to go home.

Back to the warmth of the old fireplace. To the smell of fresh bread and coffee. The scent of his mother’s perfume, fresh laundry and the lilacs his father always brought home for her. The smell of ink and old books, covers gently mended. The way his father’s hands looked holding the yellowed pages. Gently turning them with practiced fingers.

He wanted to go home but he couldn’t.

Not after the man with hatred in his eyes and fire in his arm set it ablaze. Not after he had sealed his parents away in a metal cage for transport to the city. They had hidden him away in the bushes of the forest. His mother touching his face with her hand. Soft and calloused. Comfort and love. His father watched him in the low light, eyes heavy with saddness but a fierce protectiveness hardened them.

_Stay_

_We love you_

_Stay_

He watched them step out the forest. His body frozen in fear. He watched his father pull his mother into a quick hug. Their bodies framed in the moonlight that broke through the clouds. The man with the metalic arm had approached them, arm gesturing to the house and back. He cannot hear their words but he knows that no matter what it wouldn’t have mattered. You can’t reason with men like that. As quick as a snake, the others grabbed them. He can still hear his mother’s yell. His father’s call. The house erupted into flames spewing from the man’s arm. The other men watched the flames rise in grotesque delight, their metalic parts glinting. The whir and clicks of the horses as they prance in place, eyes rolling in anxiety.

He wants to go home.

A swaying man stumbles out of the saloon. The man staggers in place, unfocused eyes sweeping the darkness outside the rectangle of light. He trips over his feet, reaching for the smooth metal flank of his horse. He mounts it unsteadily, body slouching to the side. He taps the side of the horse with his shoes, gesturing it to walk. A whisper of sound echoes through the night’s air. It sounds like the whistle of a whip being drawn back. The man half turns in his saddle before he feels the force of something strike him in the chest. He glances down, bringing his hand curiously to the dark spot forming over his metalic heart before he slumps over dead.

Lenny adjusts the perimeters on his eye, the iris whirring and clicking as it sizes and resizes. He checks the body once more, scanning it for life before he pulls back from his gun. Slinging it over his shoulder, he stands from his perch on the cliff outside of town. Taking out his journal, he slowly crosses a name off. He flips through it searching for the map when he comes across a photo.

He touches it, untucking it from its place in the crevice. Dates written in a practiced hand underneath two of the photo’s occupants. He traces the faces in them.

_One more to go_

_And then he can finally go home._


	7. Ghost Rider

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Ghost Riders

He’s heard tales of them before.

The Ghost Riders.

They swarmed and swung through the night sky chasing the devil’s cattle some say.

Others say it is two riders tied together on a horse, endlessly galloping through the desert.

Some whisper that it is a man with a skull of flames screaming in the night on the back of a skeletal horse.

Charles has heard all the tales of them before but never has he ever encountered one. Old wives tales and superstitions, he would say. Stories to scare you into being good. He had no need for them.

That is of course until he met one in his dreams.

The rider was pale and transparent, wispy as the clouds but somehow as thick as fog. It rode on a horse in the distance and no matter how close Charles got, he was always out of reach. The ghostly rider always appeared to him before a job. Always the same. Far away, yet close enough to see the outline.

As they moved from Blackwater to Horseshoe, the figure grew closer. Little by little he could make out the outline of his saddle. Then the outline of his shoes. His shirt and then his hat.

The ghostly rider visited him constantly but he never told anyone. He didn’t know what to make of it himself.

Then one night the rider was closer than ever before. He could see the strands of hair around his ears and nape of his neck. The wrinkles in his shirt and the the gun in his holster. They rode through the plains of New Hanover and through the swamps of Lemoyne. Through the forested hills of Roanoke and into the mountains. The rider came to a stop at the top of a mountain overlooking the valley. Shafts of light from the sun peeking over the horizon illuminated the form as it turned its horse around to face him.

The figure smiled a crooked grin, eyes alight like fish in the river with mirth. It raised a hand in a two finger salute, horse rearing back before it disappeared in the light of the risen sun.

In the morning, Charles heard about the fire fight in the woods. He heard about the betrayal that had started and ended it. He mounted his horse and rode until he found the place in his dreams.

Later he would tell John where he had buried him. Later he would correct the betrayal that had taken the people he had called family.

But he never would tell anyone of the ghost rider. Sometimes he would watch the night sky looking for a streak of light. He would close his eyes when he saw one. Visions of a ghostly rider arching across a river of stars. They would whoop and yell, urging their horse faster until they were just a stream of light. Others would join their journey, glittering brighter than the moon. He knows he will join them one day.

And when that day comes he will gladly ride with him again.


	8. It's Called Fashion. Look it up.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Cowboy Couture

“Cowboy Couture.”

“Cowboy what?”

Trelawny sighed, shaking his head at the man in front of him. Sometimes he marvels at Arthur’s intelligence. Other times he wonders how he has gotten this far in the world. This was one of those times.

“ _Couture_ , Arthur. It’s fashion!”

“See, you keep sayin’ that word and it’s starting to piss me off. So why don’t you get to the point.”

Trelawny waved his hand impatiently in front of Arthur’s face, gesturing with his other for the man to sit down in the chair in front of his caravan. He sits down, trying to wipe some of the red dust of Rhodes that covered everything off his hands and pants. He wondered vaguely how Trelawny kept his outfit so clean. 

“I was walking through the streets of St. Denis, taking in the sights when-”

“Trewlany-”

“I’m getting to it! Patience is a virtue, my boy. _As I was saying,_ I _was_ walking through the streets of St. Denis when I came across a shop selling the most peculiar clothing. The owner informed me that these were the latest fashions from Paris, France! Can you believe that?”

Arthur stared at him in stony silence, his face set into a scowl. Slowly he stands from the chair, hands curling into fists as he stalked the small porch.

“Are you telling me that you called me over here just to tell me about some shop selling god damn clothes?”

His voice rumbled softly and Trelawny could hear the warning in it.

“No, my idea was much better. Now if you please?” 

Arthur stood still, arms stiff at his side, fists clenched.   
  
“OK, fine! An idea popped into my head that we start our own clothing line. Sell them the clothes of the common folk and call it Cowboy Couture. We’ll then sell it to all the rich idiots in St. Denis by saying it was one of the latest fashions to come from Paris. They’ll buy our clothes and we’ll fix our little cash flow problem. It’s the best plan I have ever came up with!”

Trewlany smirks, hands on his hips. Arthur feels a headache coming on.

“I have a contact in place for the clothing and a interested buyer already. Now I just need-”

“No,” Arthur stops him, eyes closed against the pain building behind his eyes, “Whatever it is. Whatever you are going to ask me it’s a no.”

The man in front of him tsks, arms crossing in front of his chest. 

“I already have models, Arthur. The girls, Javier, Lenny and John-”

“Does John know that?”

“-all kindly agreed to help me,” he continues ignoring Arthur’s question. He reaches a hand out, smiling, “I just need a business partner. So what do you say?”

Arthur eyes Trelawny’s outstretched hand with suspicion. Like most plans, they sound great on paper but don’t work out the way they are intended to. Still... it did sound like a solid con. Strange but solid. 

“I guess you got a deal.”


	9. High Noon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning for implied sexual assault, blood and physical violence
> 
> Prompt: High Noon

Heat stifling the room

Clothes dirtied and torn on the floor

Blood on the sheets

She can feel the soft material of the bed under her. It rubs against her body as she stares at the ceiling. Rage curls through her. It coils tightly like a snake around her and she feels it squeeze. Sweat dripped onto her, stinging her good eye and the jagged knife marks on her body.

She hated.

Hated the smell that permeated the room.

Hated the look of ecstasy on his face.

The knife lay bloodied and discarded on the nightstand. Her eye watched it move back and forth. She wondered how it would look buried in his eye.

When he was done, he left her on the bed like a broken doll.

“A pleasure as always, darling”

He touches her leg and her skin crawls. 

That night she has the girls draw the hottest bath she can stand. She imagines the heat scorching off the feel of his touch. She slides beneath the water.

He always comes at high noon.

And each time he leaves a new mark on her. A brand like she was live stock. She wonders how he treats the other women in his life. If he saves his hatred for them. Because they are lesser. Because they do not fit in society. She knows that somewhere a woman sleeps soundly in her bed dreaming of a man who does not exist. 

She pities her. 

“My wife is having a baby.”

 _What does that have to do with me_ , she wants to say. Instead she stays silent watching him pace the length of the room. It was her room but she refuses to call it that. It has not been her room for a long time. 

“She expects me to be there to raise the thing. I have no want for a child.”

He turns to her and she doesn’t like the look in his eye. The look that meant bruises and cuts. Torn clothing and blood. 

The knife is hot against her skin and she feels it press into her cheek.

“Oh, so pretty. Just like my other dolls. You’re stronger than them though. They always-”

He cuts a jagged river deep into her skin. Tears bead in her eyes from the pain. Rage strangles her.

“-break.”

The high noon sun curls through the window.

Heat stifling the room.

Blood on the floor boards.

She watches from her place on the bed, arms wrapped tightly curled legs. Blood weeps from the scar on her face. Sweat beads on the nape of her neck, hair plastered to her forehead, jagged knife marks on her body. She watches the blood seep into the varnished wood, forming patterns in the grain. She watches until the sun has passed it’s zenith. She stands- knife still clutched in her stained hand. She steps over his body, torn skirt trailing a bloody path behind her.

She smiles.


	10. End of the Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Arizona Rangers
> 
> The Arizona Rangers were a real group of people. The US Government had refused to allow Arizona state because of the lawlessness within the territory. So in 1901 the Arizona Rangers were formed to patrol and "tame" the Arizona Territory. They were highly trained much like the Texas Rangers. Arizona officially became a state in 1912.

Arizona was a no mans land.

A lawless paradise.

And the perfect place to hide.

Countless outlaws from across the US would lose the lawmen chasing them at the border. 

_Too dangerous, too many outlaws_ , they would say, turning their horses around and riding back. Even the Pinkertons avoided the state, acting as if it was nonexistent. 

Which served Micah well enough.

His failed deal with Milton and Ross still stung. As far as he knew he was still a wanted man in most of the states. It’s too bad Dutch had a change of heart. He really could have used a man like him. And as much as he loathed to admit it, Arthur as well. 

It proved to be a lucrative place. Micah began to make a name for himself as a formidable one man crew. Robing banks and trains that rolled through. His time with the Van Der Linde gang having shown him everything his father never did. If only the old man could see him now.

Everything was going well until he had started to hear talk of a group. They called themselves the Arizona Rangers. They had thwarted the robbery of the national bank in the capital, having captured the last remnants of the Owlhoot Family. He didn’t even know that gang was still in operation. 

Slowly more and more gangs were taken out over the years. The ones that hadn’t been captured either left the state or joined him. They continued as normal, avoiding the law and robbing. He wasn’t going to be afraid of these Arizona Rangers. He would survive them.

Just like he survived everything else.

That is until he heard the voice of someone he thought had left long ago. One he didn’t think he’d hear again.

“Micah Bell, you son of a bitch! I’ve come for your head!”

It seemed his journey was at an end.


	11. Old Town Road: Ode to the Cabrero who sang of longing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: Old Towns Road

Sometimes I think of Javier

Of the man who had killed another and lost the woman he loved

of the way he had wandered alone and lost in a world that viewed him with suspicion

of Dutch who had found him, warmed him and took him in

From deserts to plains to mountains

to islands and places familiar and foreign

loss, bitter and cruel

triumph

happiness

It curls like the dust on an old town’s road

I think of his guitar

strings rusted and slack

how he may have looked at it from time to time

shaken the dust off and put it into position

how his fingers fell into the familiar grooves

poised over the strings ready to play

voices echoing through his head 

Songs flying off his lips

How his body refused to move

A life half lived

and then expired

A return to the place that hadn’t changed

Maybe his life would have been different

But I think it would always have been the same

He never had a chance 


	12. Queen of the Rodeo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: Queen of the Rodeo

Abigail rode into camp the moment the contractions started. A part of her knew that the women in the brothel would take care of her but she wanted him to be there. She wanted him to care. 

In her mind she heard the same phrase repeat over and over again.

_Queen of the rodeo, you rode on in with nowhere else to go_

She never thought that she would be here. Never thought that she would fall in love. Not with John. 

She had been in love with once before. He would visit her time and time again. Promises falling from his lips of a better life than working in a brothel. She believed him. Believed he would take her away. She was naive. She would never be naive again. But something about John just... She didn’t have the words for it. He just was. 

Her mother had always told her she was a beautiful girl.

 _Beautiful_ , she would whisper, hand running through her hair.

 _Beautiful_ , the men visiting the Cat house would say as she played the piano.

 _Beautiful_ , he panted, hot breath in her ear. 

As another stab of pain cut through her, face red and sweaty with exertion, she thought beauty can only get you so far. 

Jack was an angry lump of dark hair, red faced and lungs full of breath. They laid him upon her breast, her body sagging in exhaustion. He was beautiful and she understood.

The moment she discovered John had left, she walked into the woods. She stood in the copse of thick leafed trees and screamed. She screamed until her voice cracked. She screamed until her throat was raw. She screamed until she tasted the bitter iron taste of blood on her tongue and she imagined that it was pieces of her heart. She walked back into camp, eyes wet with tears, voice gone. She took Jack back from the arms of Grimshaw who eyed her with concern and shut herself in their- her- tent.

She was grateful for them. For the girls who supported her. For Hosea who defended her place in the camp. For Arthur. Parts of her wondered what it would have been like to be with a man such as him. Solid, steadfast, a quiet protectiveness that seemed to fill the air. But her heart would whisper as she watched him hold Jack. As he would hand her his share of the take for Jack’s clothes. As he made sure to ask about her in his quiet awkward way.

That he wasn’t John. 

And she spirals once again.

Jack is confused. He looks to her, eyes wide with questions she has no real answer to, as John quietly moves about her tent. And she thinks of the time when he was learning to talk. Of the way his little arms reached out- hands grasping, face split with a gummy smile- towards Arthur who had passed by her tent. Of the way he yelled “Dada.” Of the way Arthur startled and dropped the hay bale, straw scattering around his boots as he turned towards them. 

John may have been Jack’s father but he wasn’t his daddy.

Arthur had politely distanced himself from them after that. She didn’t blame him. She knew he had his eyes and heart set on someone else. She wishes.. Well. If wishes were horses, beggars would ride. 

It took her _years_ to reconcile in her head that this was a different John. That he grew and changed. That he wouldn’t cut and run. That, yes, that was him looking at her as she combed her hair like she was a star in the sky. But sometimes in the night she would touch his back. Feel the muscles move, up and down, with the timing of his breath. As he stirs and turns towards her, eyes alert in the dark. Feel his heart beat through her palms as he hovers above her. Yes, this is John. This is him. _He’s here he’s here he’s here-_

She touches the empty spot beside her. Fingers running over the indentation where his body lay. His scent no longer lingers but she can still smell it. She can feel Jack’s hand on hers. Worn and smooth from work. He looks so much like his father. She thinks of when she rode into camp all those years ago. She closes her eyes.


	13. Good Ole Fashioned Snake Oil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Snake Oil

“What ya doin’, Grandpa Hosea?”

“I’m making good old fashion snake oil.”

Jack’s face acrunched up, his little mind whirling with thoughts. He watches Hosea stopper another bottle and label it carefully with a new brand.

_Lafonde & Son_

He sets it down on the table next to the others and starts on another bottle.“What is snake- snake oil?”

“Snake oil is whatever they want it to be,” Hosea said looking down at Jack as he continued to mix. Jack’s face peered over the edge of the table, eyes wide as he looks at the other bottles.

“Anything? So it could be, um...,” he falls silent, face set in concentration. His eyes light up a moment later, a smile spreading across his face, “Chocolate?”

Hosea chuckles, setting the mixing bowl down on the table.

“Well not exactly... It’s more like,” he pauses, scratching his chin, “more like, a wish for something else. Let’s say you’re bald... Like Bill for instance. Well, for him I would say that this can help him with whatever ails him. Maybe even grow his hair.”

“But isn’t that _lying_ ,” Jack whispers, tiny hands gripping the edge of the table.

“No because _I_ didn’t tell Bill that it would help regrow his hair. I told him that it can help with whatever ails him. You see the best way for a sale is to give them the hint of an idea. Most folks if they’re desperate enough will be more than willing to do rest of the work. But it has to be good and it can’t be anything fantastical or else they’ll run you out of town.”

He wipes his hands on a rag and reaches into his jacket, taking out a large chocolate bar. 

“Now, don’t let your mama catch you eating that. She’ll have my head!”

He chuckles as Jack nods solemnly before grabbing the chocolate from his hand and running off. He picks up the mixing bowl, thoughts sailing back to another little boy with wide curious eyes. 


	14. One bottle, please

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Sarsaparilla

“I’m hot, mama!”  
  
“I know, Jack, I know but I can’t do anything about the heat.”  
  
Jack mopped next to his mother, trying to hide under the little shade of the stall. He hated market day. His mother took too long at each stall, picking up each fruit to squeeze it gently. The way he saw it, this whole trip could be cut in half if she just chose the first fruit she touched. That’s what he would do. He watched her pick up another one and he sighed.

Maybe when they get back Grandpa Hosea or Miss Tilly could take him to the lake! His dad never wanted to take him there. Uncle Arthur says it’s cause he’s an idiot.   
  
“Sarsaparilla! Get your ice cold Sarsaparilla here!”

“Mama, can I get something to drink?”

Abigail looks down at him, taking in the ruddy cheeks and hair clinging to his brow. She looks towards where his finger pointed. Her mind quickly calculates the cost of the bottle and the food she was tasked with buying.

“Ok, one bottle.”

Jack cheers racing over to the vendor, Abigail in tow.

The heat choked the cobbled stoned street. The shade of the buildings did little to abeit the summer sun as he lead his horse. An automobile honked its horn at him and he waved them on, flashing a rude gesture as they sped past. It was a mistake to come here. He hated San Denis. But he had promised that he would visit Tilly and her family before they moved. 

He stops under the shade of a tree, feeling the slight breeze of the river finally funnel down the cramped corridors. He takes off his hat, fingers combing through his long hair, separating the sweat matted strands. 

“Sarsaparilla! Ice cold sarsaparilla!”  
  
His hand pause, fingers tangled in the strands as a memory pushes its way to the forefront of his mind. Of another day filled with summer heat and the skirt of his mother brushing his side. A cold bottle numbing his fingers as they passed it back and forth. His mother’s smile as bright as the sun.

“One bottle please.”


	15. Hell hath no fury like a woman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Hell on Wheels

Karen was a contradiction.

She hated Grimashaw with a passion. Often the day would end with them yelling at each other. Faces red from anger as they circled each other like caged lions. The rest of the camp gave them a wide berth when it happens. It usually ended with each of them storming off to opposite sides of the camp, arms crossed and words poised on their tongues like razor blades.

But in the morning they would stand next to each other by the fire, hands wrapped around warm cups of coffee, as they talked quietly with one another.

She scoffed at the idea of love. 

To her it was a fairy tale. Something that never actually happens. She would pretend to gag behind the back of Molly as she gushed to Mary Beth about Dutch. Reading the romance novels in stupid voices and laughing at how ridiculous it was. What did she need love for that riches couldn’t buy. 

But in the night, she would sit alone by the fire. Eyes watching the flames dance as she sang quietly to herself a song of longing for a love long gone. How she would watch the way her friends would eye each other across the camp, face full of sadness. In how she lost herself in a bottle after he was gone.

She hears his laugh in the song of the birds. Feels his touch on the wind. Hears his voice echo through her soul. Anger curls through her. She smashes a bottle against the wall. She leaves that night, eyes full of fire, a gun in her hand.

The cool breeze from the river pulls at her curls as she stands on its bank. Her arm hangs by her side, gun held loosely in her hand. She can still smell the gun powder. Her the ringing of the gun shot and the church bell. She hears his voice on the wind and she smiles.


	16. Boom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Dynamite

Bill always did love a big explosion. 

When he was a kid, he was always fascinated by the fireworks they set off during the Fourth of July. The bright colors painting the sky in blues and reds and greens. He’d watch them from the roof of his shack, face slack in awe as the loud explosions drowned out the sounds of the yelling below him. When he finally dragged himself to his cot, he would close his eyes, seeing the explosions behind his lids.

As he got older he began to appreciate other types of explosions.

The ones made from fists and rage. From the liquor in his system and a breath in his ear.

He learned that bruises colored the same as fireworks. Rapidly changing colors from reds to blacks to blues to yellows. He liked the way they looked on his skin. But liked it more on the skin of others.

He roared through the years before Dutch like a train rapidly going nowhere.

In many ways Dutch gave him the focus to hone his skills. He was free from the constraints of society. From the people that looked down on him.

But as time moved on, he found he wasn’t as free as he thought.

Idiot, they called him behind his back.

Moron, they whispered around the fire.

He hears them planning and scheming, calling him the rat.

He’ll show them.

One day soon there will be no more Dutch. No more Arthur. No more John. And when that time comes he’s going to make sure that he goes out in a bang.


	17. Ropework

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Ropework

Swanson didn’t like to remember his days with the gang. 

He didn’t like to remember the aching hunger that ate at him. At the days that blurred together into nothingness. When he would wake from his stupor in places he doesn’t recognize, with people he doesn’t know. The brunt of jokes he was too drugged up to register.

But he knew.

He knew.

He hated the sad regard they would give him.

He was a person.

A person.

Now he knows that they weren’t equipped to help him. That they were barely holding on themselves. He doesn’t like to remember the times with them. It brought him too much sadness. He had pulled himself from the gutters as the gang crumbled around him. Each day he felt like he was waking from dream.

Each night he plunged deep into a nightmare.

One night he woke to cold sweat, body jittering from a sickness he could not name. He sat by the fire, hands wringing themselves raw as he watched it dance. A racking cough echoed from behind him and he watched Arthur’s long legs step over the log, a half braided rope in his hand. They sat together in silence, the years they knew each other stretched between them. He thinks of all the time, Arthur found him and took him back. Of his voice filtering through his mind as he fell away. He was no longer the man he remembered. They both weren’t. Arthur’s fingers worked quick and steady, braiding the thick strands together. When he reached the end, he unbraided it and started over again. Swanson watched as it came together again, the motions soothing in the repetition. When Arthur finishes, he unbraids it slow and hands it to Swanson. Swanson takes it, eyes traveling up to the Arthur’s face. Quietly Arthur explains the motions, guiding his hand as he works through the braid. They work through it as the fire inches lower and lower, the horizon lightening. Swanson is half way through the braid when he realizes that Arthur is no longer beside him.   
  
That had been the last he saw of him for a long while.

Sometimes- when he feels the gnawing hunger of drink or the want for the numbness the drugs gave him- he sits beside the fireplace, fingers braiding the rope in his hand. The one given to him so many years ago.

And he remembers.


	18. Duck to Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Watering hole

No matter the town you can always find the local watering hole.

It varies from place to place. Some places may have two. Others might have three. It didn’t matter much to Uncle. He’s been to them all. From a shack that served moonshine to the fancy establishments in places like St. Denis and Blackwater. He’s been to each and every one.

And has been thrown out of each one.

It wasn’t hard to find out if Uncle had been in town. The looks of displeasure on the barkeeps and other patrons would tell the gang what they needed to know. Uncle gravitated to saloons, dives and shacks like a duck to water.

Oddly enough despite the warnings to not come back, the threat of a beating, people actually missed him. He wasn’t that bad. Not like some of the more... unsavory folks that ride through every once in a while. No, he wasn’t terrible. But don’t let him hear that.

That’s how the gang got stuck with him in the first place. 


	19. Lucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: Lucky horseshoe

People confused him. 

They were angry and often mean. He had trouble trying to understanding the other kids. Often the limited interactions he had with other kids ended with him standing alone in the middle of the road, shirt dusty and dirt smeared on his face. 

The world was a loud and chaotic place. 

He didn’t much care for it. 

He preferred the company of horses. 

They were quiet, kind and funny. He liked to watch them through the trees, watch them run through the fields. Watch the colts jump and play. Sometimes he wonders if maybe he was just born in the wrong body. Like what if God meant for him to be a horse but his soul was put into a human’s instead. He had asked his mother once. His ears still ring from her yelling. Sometimes he wishes he could turn into a horse. Then maybe the world would make better sense. 

As he got older he learned to keep those thoughts to himself. 

The jeers of children turned into the insults of adults. Whispers and rumors. So he did all the things that was expected of boys and men. But he never quite got it right. He couldn’t hold his liquor. Didn’t like to fight or hunt. He liked fishing though. So he wasn’t a complete pox on the state of man. 

Or whatever the priest had said. 

Still things weren’t all bad. The Van Der Linde gang was nice for the most part. Except for the angry blonde haired lady and the balding man and uh, angry blonde haired man. But he got to work with horses so that was alright in his books. And there was a nice pretty lady who was teaching him to read. He liked her voice. So two good things. Even though Horseshoe Overlook didn’t look like any kinda horseshoe he’s seen but maybe it was lucky.

Things can only go up from here. 


	20. Days Gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: Stagecoach

Simon Pearson was not a very sentimental man. 

He viewed things through the lens of practicality. Any story he told of his past had a point. They were lessons, cautionary tales, on how a decision they were making was one he made in the past. But from time to time he falls into a thought.

A memory of days where things were happier. 

Not to say he wasn’t happy now. He had his own store and he was married. Those were two things he never thought he would have. Dutch had spoken so much on owning their own island or a place for them but as the years passed that dream became smaller and smaller until it was gone. 

His eyes drift to the photograph on wall. He touches the frame, wiping away the fine red dust that settles over everything. Afternoon light reflects off the glass, scattering prisms of light around the room. 

He doesn’t remember who had suggested it- maybe it was Javier, maybe Dutch- but he remembers them all getting into position on top of the stagecoach. He remembers the cool breeze, the sun shining through the clouds. It was like a dream. As vibrant as the colors on his ceiling. 

The ringing of the bell takes him out of his thoughts. The greeting on his tongue dies away as he takes in their smiling face.

“John Marston? I don’t believe it! I thought you were dead!”


	21. Bedtime story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: Jackalope

Mary-Beth always wanted to be a writer. 

She thought they lived such glamorous lives. How else would they come up with such ideas and situations. Of course wanting to be a writer and actually writing were two very separate things.

Her trunk was filled with partially filled or empty journals. Each one from a different town. She likes to think that it was just for back up. Just in case she loses one, she has... twenty others to replace it. Whenever Tilly or Karen would ask if she had finished that story she had shown them months ago; Mary-Beth would break into a cold sweat and stammer.

“N-not yet! Just a bit of a roadblock!”

She needed to just finish one story. 

Just one. 

So she set out just to do that one night. Everyone had gone to sleep and she settled by the light of the fire, a pen poised over the blank first page of a new journal from Valentine. 

And wrote nothing.

Her mind was blank.

She stared at that blank first page for hours. She crossed her legs, uncrossed them, adjusted, readjusted, before finally just settling on the ground staring listlessly up at the starry sky.

A little face appeared over her, fist rubbing the sleep from his eye.

“What are you doing up, Jack?”

“I had a bad dream and I didn’t wanna wake mama. Father gets pretty grumpy when I do.”

Mary-Beth nods as she sits up, patting the floor beside her. 

“Wanna sit with me until you get sleepy again?”

Jack nods and sits beside her, crossing his legs as he stares into the flames. His tired eyes watched them dance and she nudges his shoulder with her arm.

“Wanna tell me what the dream was about?

Jack hesitates before shaking his head, his hair falling into his eyes. She nods, she never liked talking about her bad dreams either. They sit in silence, listening to the night. The call of the animals remind her of something she heard in town.

“Want to hear a story? It’s about the mighty Jackalope.”

“What’s a Jack-Jack-”

“ _Jack-a-lope._ It’s a cross between a deer and a jackrabbit.”

Jack’s eyes grow big and she can already see the questions forming. 

“Hold on, hold on! Give me just a moment to get settled. Ok, so once upon a time there were two brothers. One was the mighty deer and the other was the swift rabbit. They would chase each other through the fields, each trying to outwit the other. One day the rabbit challenged the deer to a race. Whoever made it to the top of the mountain first would get the losers most prized possession. The deer agreed and the other animals gathered to watch.”

Jack settles closer, eyes wide in excitement.

“The alligator snapped it’s tail against the water and off they ran ask quick lightning. Through the fields and forests, over streams and rivers of trees they raced. Fish jumped from the water to cheer them on. Birds flew above them, calling to the other animals who was in the lead. They kept running until they reached the foot of the mountain. The deer and rabbit hopped from rock to rock, climbing the steep cliffs and running through the deep snow. Finally the finish line came into view and the rabbit gave a mighty leap. His brother not be out paced, jumped as well. They landed in the snow and everyone held their breath. A pair of long ears popped out, little face dusted with snow. Rabbit had won! All the animals cheered as the rabbit jumped about happily. The deer as promised gave the rabbit its most prized possession, its own set of horns, and that is how the Jackalope came to be.”

Mary-Beth looked down to see Jack’s eyes closed, a smile on his face. She smoothed the hair back from his forehead as a soft hand touched her shoulder. Abigail slowly pulled him into her arms as she mouthed thank you. She watches them walk away before she picks up her pen and begins to write.


	22. Hunger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Salt of the Earth

Leopold Strauss knew the gnawing feeling of hunger. 

The aching feel of your stomach turning in on itself, biting at its own flesh. The weakness that filled your limbs as you shamble through the streets. It gurgled and clawed. Acid, bubbling and hot, sliding up your throat, coating your tongue in its acrid taste. How the hint of food made your mouth water. Spit dribbling out the sides like a waterfall. The sting of shame when the vendor turns their nose up at your paltry trade. 

_No money, no food_

Yes, he knew the feeling of hunger. 

He had vowed never to feel that way again. He worked his way up the ranks and when he couldn’t work, he blacked mail. The professors and headmaster, other students, businessmen, it didn’t matter. They all moved on his command like marionettes, his hands deftly plucking their strings to make them dance. But there is always the issue with being a big fish in a small pond.

So he moved.

He traveled from village to burg to city, lining his pockets and bodies in his wake. He didn’t kill them, he would remark to others at soirées, the poor folks simply didn’t understand the terms of the contracts. Afterall they probably couldn’t read. The others would laugh, teeth glittering like pearls in the light.

Life with the gang had not been like anything he wanted to remember. The looks on the faces of the people he gave money to reminded him of his past. He hated them. He got to where he was because of hard work. What’s their excuse? They were salt of the earth. Common idiotic folk. He never questioned why they were desperate. Why they agreed to any terms he set. He admired men like Cornwall, who held an iron fist over the people, squeezing them of their wealth and body. He envisioned himself one someday. 

He thinks of these as another fist kisses his face. As his glasses break and fall to the ground useless. He thinks of the green bills falling like leaves, scattering in the wind as he gathers them. The anger on the face of the man he thought too simple to understand the need- the point- of why he does what he does. But maybe he always did know. Maybe he was just as guilty as the rest. Instead of a gun, he killed with a smile. He wheezes through his mouth, feeling the acrid taste of his stomach. Feel it knotting and biting on itself as he sat in the wooden chair. 

He was so hungry.

His laughter echoes against the walls of the empty room.


	23. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: Bison Bison Bison

Eagle Flies hated the phrase “You can never go home again.” 

It just pointed out all the things he already knew. 

That the plains, rivers, lakes, forests were no longer theirs. That they had been driven out, corralled into cramp quarters like animals. That every passing year he watches his people slowly lose the shine in their eyes, the glow in their skin. How once their encampment would be bustling with activity, voices calling to each other in greeting, mock anger, jest. How it grows quieter and quieter, until one day he woke up and wondered if he had gone deaf. 

He misses his home. 

He misses his people. 

He misses his father. 

He misses the way he used to be, now only a man beaten down by the ones that call themselves _better_. 

There was nothing better about them. _They_ were the true savages.Monsters like ones from stories come to life. They devoured the land, cutting it up into pieces and feeding it to great machines that spit out smoke and ash from their great maws. The bodies of bison piled into steaming mountains of carnage. 

He used to watch them run, the rumble of their hooves vibrating the ground. It would raise up through him, stirring his blood to pump, his heart to jump in his chest. He felt so light then, pointing to them as his father smiled, hand on his shoulder. 

He wants his home back. 

And maybe there is a chance for that to happen. This man, Dutch, has a plan to get back at the ones who caged them. 

A way to make them pay for what they have done. 


	24. Gunpowder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: Big Iron

Despite everything. 

Despite the law nipping at her heels or the cocky bounty hunters thinking she was an easy catch in her old age. Despite the slowness of her gait and the ache in her hands. The days where she would stare long into the horizon and remember. When she would be surrounded by people and still feel alone. When she would feel her touch on her hand, ghostly and thin. How it moved up her wrist and to her shoulder in one practiced motion. The caress of her thumb on her cheek and the fingers that smooth the furrow of her brow. 

She can hear her whisper in her ear.

_Belle, my Black Belle. Beautiful as a rose and deadlier than a viper_

She could still smell the fresh scent of her clothes, see the way her dress bunches and sways as she runs. See her wild curls bounce around her face and the sun catch on her brown skin. How she was the most beautiful creature she had ever seen. How no one ever, will ever, has ever compared to her. 

Her smile was the sun. Beautiful in its light and warmth, blinding in its honesty and power. Soft hands and body that fit into hers. Slotting into place like the last puzzle piece. She still dreams of them in their bed, curled around each other, hair escaping from their braids as they whispered. Feel the weight of her as she leaned in, breath ghosting across Belle’s face, before her lips touched hers. The sweet ache that spread through her as her heart sang in her chest, _Yes yes yes-_

How her blood looked on the floor of their cabin. She remembers staring at it like she had never seen it before. A riddle without an answer. Her eyes following the path it had come to see her beloved’s body stretched across the floor. How her heart cracked in her chest. How her blood turned to ice in her veins, crawling through her body. It knitted the pieces back together, haphazardly stitching them together, but it’ll never be the same. 

Most of all she remembers the look on his face when she found him. When she held the gun to his face, the rapidly cooling bodies of his men around them. He looked at her in terror, in awe. She looked at him in disgust.

_Belle, My Black Belle. Beautiful as a rose and deadlier than a viper_


	25. An end

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: Last Stand

When people say their lives flash before their eyes they never say what it is they see.

For him he sees the face of Abigail. The way her nose scrunches when he hugs her after working outside all day. The way her eyes glitter as she dances away from him. The shape of her mouth as she pouts, laughs, smiles, cries. How her brows dip over her eyes when she is upset before it smooths out like ripples on a lake. 

He sees Jack as he was, as he is. A red faced baby, little arms swinging with clenched fists. The way he looked smiling up at him from his spot on the back of John’s horse. As he is now, barely a man but not a boy either.

He wonders vaguely if maybe this is what Arthur saw. Not this exactly no but the faces of all he loved stretching before him as he fell.

He hopes so.

He hopes that time will be kind to them. The ones left behind. That what he’s done is enough to ensure their safety.

He’s sorry.

So sorry.

He wishes...


	26. Into the Sunrise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: See you around, Space Cowboy

Arthur remembers his mother once telling him that nobody is every really gone. They’re everywhere around you. You can feel their presence in the forests. Hear their voices on the wind. Everyone returns to the earth from which they came but some of them were made from stars. 

And maybe, just maybe, he was as well. 

He had believed her then as many four year olds do but after her death. After his father came to collect him and he began down this path; he lost that wide eyed wonder. That belief in there being something else. It still appears every so often. A whisper of her voice when he meets new people. Subconsciously he categorizes them, dreams filled with visions of plants, animals, and stars. 

Charles is the trees. Roots deep in the earth, steady and strong.

Tilly is the deer. Beauty and grace.

Hosea was the wind. Soft as a breeze or as strong as a gale. 

Lenny was a star. Brilliant in the way it sparks in the night sky.

All the ones that came before and all the ones that came after. He sees them in everything now. He hears their voices echoing back at him in the song of the birds and the light of the moon. 

He had thought that he would be alone in the end. 

That when he goes he would just fade to black.

But here on the mountain as he watches the sunrise he knows he isn’t alone. 

Not anymore.

He isn’t afraid because they will always be with him and he with them. And as his body fades in the light of the rising sun, he sees all their faces once more. They feel his touch on their arms, on their faces. A ghostly embrace that warms their souls. He leaves a piece of himself with them. He knows they’ll keep it safe till he sees them again. 

_Are you ready to go, Arthur?_

_Yeah... Let’s ride_

* * *

_“You - you alone will have the stars as no one else has them...In one of the stars I shall be living. In one of them I shall be laughing. And so it will be as if all the stars were laughing, when you look at the sky at night...You - only you - will have stars that can laugh.”  
― Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince_


	27. If Only...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bonus chapter: Molly O'Shea

Grief is never a straight line. 

Molly likes to think of it as more of an ocean.

It pulses and curls in time with the moon. Waves cresting and breaking apart against the shore and rocks. Sometimes it’s a gentle push, a slight nudge to her legs as she stands on the shore. Water covering her toes and lower legs in the cool warmth of a distant memory. She can take those days, prefers them to the waves that crash. The ones that push and tear at the sand. The water that rushes in suddenly, a cacophonous harmony. The way it disturbs in its suddenness. Changing the landscape as it carves away the foundation below her.

She wishes that someone had told her that when she was younger. When she watches the adults around her shuffle about, their voices hushed whispers. How her mother rotated between so many emotions that she felt dizzy trying to categorize it. No one had sat her down then to tell her. To explain how you can miss someone who is never really gone. How traces of them can linger in everything, like mines left behind long after the soldiers have gone.

Will this shirt trigger a memory? 

Will it hurt? 

Will she be ok on the other side when her mind stops wandering down these corridors? 

She never has the answers to those questions. 

She doesn’t think that anyone does. 

She’s experienced her share of grief. The way it manifests in various forms. Like the time she dropped her ice cream on her favorite dress and thought that it had been ruined forever. How she woke up to find one of her fish had died and she held a funeral for them in the yard. 

The crushing agonizing feeling that curled through her body, icy tendrils encasing her heart, as the person before her walks away. 

She wished someone had told her of all the ways you can miss a person. That one day you’ll wake up and turn over to find no one behind you. The imprint of their body the only indication that they had ever been there at all. But even that is faint, the lines of them having been ironed out. The scent of them getting stuck in your nose. You smell it everywhere but can’t find the source. How at odd hours of the night it can creep up on you and your body aches. 

She misses all the ways they were and all the ways they could have been. 

_If only he would just listen._

_If only he would just care_

_If only_

_if only..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading


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